Method In It
by htebazytook
Summary: This is how I distracted myself while attempting to write a paper, the topic of which should quickly become evident—I knew I'd find a way to put my classes to good use! Know that the opinions expressed by the characters are not necessarily shared by the


Title: Method In It

Rating: PG (for transvestism?)

Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley at the theatre.

Disclaimer: --

Author's Notes: This is how I distracted myself while attempting to write a paper, the topic of which should quickly become evident—I knew I'd find a way to put my classes to good use! Know that the opinions expressed by the characters are not necessarily shared by the author (although I confess there is probably some degree of venting and abstract over-analysation). Also, first fic, not to mention first prose in quite a while. Here's hoping I remember how this goes.

It hadn't been one of Crowley's better ideas.

_Aziraphale_ was the theatre buff. He had always supported live drama, even back when people paraded around with enormous heads on their shoulders, which both of them found secretly hilarious. Crowley more openly thought the masses broadly missed the point of whatever play was being forced upon them, but obediently sat through it for the promise of a lot of wine. And even Crowley had to admit that he, at least, had been frustrated when the world exchanged intelligent entertainment for mass holy slaughter. One thing was for sure: you got used to seeing the same stories for six thousand years. After awhile they started to grow on you. Everything tended to borrow from something else.

This bard did not borrow; he outright _stole_. And Aziraphale, along with every other Londoner who didn't live in scandalous proximity to the playhouse, was rather taken with the guy. The angel was collecting the man's work _already_; u Golde Diggers of 1589 /u was right up there with Chaucer, wedged in-between Aziraphale's signed copy of u Canterbury Tales /u and the typical throng of Bibles.

The suddenness of the angel's obsession struck Crowley as deeply strange. Perhaps that was why he let himself be dragged to the teeming wooden O time and again.

There was no shortage of opportunity for temptation in the flock of theatre-goers.

And, in all honesty, he was under the impression this was a _comedy_(1), for Elizabeth's sake.

He was also fairly certain that the playwright was, in a roundabout way, making skewed allusions to the Garden, somehow. It might just have been him, though; he reasoned that it made sense to be sensitive to that sort of thing.

And that was when he found his meandering mind—whose eventual goal was possibly a Fourth Act Stretch of some kind—leashed reluctantly back to the babbling, unintelligible figures on stage(2).

"Wait," said Crowley. Something was dawning on him. "Wait, Hamlet was abducted by _friendly_ _pirates_?"

Aziraphale regarded Hamlet regarding Yorick's skull rather fixedly.

"I'm right, aren't I? Huh. Ran out of ideas on that one, eh?" The angel didn't seem inclined to argue; Crowley was going to continue until he did: "Can't you just see him—'How can I get Prince Hamlet back to Denmark? Ah! pirates ought to do quite well, forsooth—'"

"Thinks aloud in blank verse, does he, Crowley?"

"_This_ lot does," said Crowley, waving a black velvet arm down at the stage. He was thoroughly bored. And also had a hunch this play would never live up to some of the others. At least, Crowley was now annoyed enough with it and its woeful plants and its hold on Aziraphale's attention to have decided it _oughtn't_ succeed in the long run.

u Love's Labour's Won /u —_that_ had been an impressive play. He said so.

"Well, of course _you_ would think so(3)," Aziraphale murmured, shifting forward in a determinedly preoccupied manner. Half of his focus was still caught up in the overgrown graveyard on the stage.

Crowley sunk sullenly into his cushioned seat.

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1. Crowley can be forgiven this—there _was_ a rather painful melodrama under the same name that had been circulating some years earlier. And Crowley was never one for keeping up with the times. (Looking like he kept up with the times was completely different.

2. It was uncertain whether this was due to acoustics or actors, but Crowley suspected it had more to do with indecipherable yet redundant language.

3._Why_ is up in the air, really. But you can surely think of something far more creative and/or slashy than the actual reason, so we'll leave it up to you.

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"I do so love the theatre," Aziraphale sighed once they were clear of the masses. Under his breath he added, "However immoral certain factions may suppose it to be."

Crowley, who was feeling much more enthusiastic about u Hamlet /u now that most of the cast had died, merrily reminded him, "There's no theatres in Heaven."

"It's really very unfair of them, you know," Aziraphale continued, refusing to rise to it with the ease of several centuries of practice. "It's such a rare thing, really, for the less fortunate to experience such marvelous works of art at so little cost. There isn't much in the form of entertainment for people of their situation."

The Thames reflected a sky that should've been thinking about getting off its lazy arse and seeing about a sunset. Crowley silently calculated how long the light would last and how close particular restaurants were. What would wash a tragedy down the best? he thought. What he said was:

"Okay. But this guy, Hamlet. He's—mean to girls." Crowley was annoyed with how pathetic he was sounding. Then, recalling another play that had amused him terribly, despite not being a comedy, "Suicide and slimy politics. Not what you'd call morally sound." He paused. "Did I mention the boys dressing up like girls? Or the boys who dress up like girls Spending Time with the older actors?"

"Well, obviously Hamlet was flawed. But, dear boy, can you think of a single human hero who wasn't? They rather _must_ be, I think. It's rather the point, you see." Aziraphale folded his hands elegantly in front of him. "Personally, I've always been under the impression that the point is trying _not_ to emulate heroes."

Crowley sighed.

One would think Aziraphale had completely ignored the _title_ _character's_ fluctuating faith in What Comes After . . . not to mention the incest(1). That he had neatly separated the consonant from the dissonant and reworked the whole thing(2) into a stupid bloody hymn.

And, well, if one knew Aziraphale, one wouldn't be as surprised as one once had been. Crowley had learned how not to gape, over the centuries.

But the angel had by now walked out of taunting distance. When Crowley caught up with him, they talked about the actors, but Crowley's assurances that most of them, including Burbage and the writer himself, were as good as damned fell on deaf ears. To which Aziraphale serenely replied, "Though this be madness, yet there is method in 't." Crowley countered with the impossibility of remembering something like that word for word, and that Aziraphale'd probably mangled the quote, somehow. Which the angel repelled with a smile equal parts indulgent and dismissive.

Crowley _hated_ the theatre.

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1. But he wasn't about to mention the latter. As much as he hated to admit it, Crowley knew his Bible. It wasn't as though he had a choice in the matter.

2. (The thing's the play.)

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End file.
